mother, by a stroke of good fortune, had been given sufficient money by her second husband in their subsequent divorce to enable her to buy somewhere small in Cornwall. She—Kate—would not be relying on any such stroke of fortune. She would provide for herself by hook or by crook and be independent.
And when and if she ever fell in love it would be with a guy who appreciated her intelligence, who was not the kind of man with commitment issues, who didn’t abandon women after he had had his fill of them, who didn’t go out with women because of the way they looked.
So far this paragon of virtue hadn’t appeared on the scene, but that didn’t mean that she would ever be distracted in the meantime by the sort of guy she privately despised.
So why, she wondered, did her stupid body begin a slow burn whenever Alessandro Preda was within her radius?
And now here he was, making noises about them working alongside one another outside normal working hours.
‘Then what is it about?’ Alessandro demanded, bringing her back to the reality of him sitting across from her with a bump. ‘Hectic social life? Can’t spare a week to sort this matter out?’ He glanced around him before settling his dark eyes on her cool, pale face. ‘Despite the extremely pleasant office you have here at the tender age of what...? Twenty-something...?’
‘I’ve been promoted on merit.’
‘And part of that promotion involves going beyond the call of duty now and again. Consider this one of those instances.’
Kate lowered her eyes, keeping her cool.
‘You said you were heading off now...?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that case...’ Alessandro stood up and sauntered towards the door, where he proceeded to lean against it, staring at her ‘...I’ll walk you down. In fact, I’ll go one better. I’ll give you a lift to your house. Where do you live?’
Kate licked her lips nervously and ventured a polite smile as she stood up as well, and began tidying a desk that wasn’t in need of tidying.
‘How long have you been here?’
His voice had her head snapping up and she looked at him in bewilderment.
‘How long have I been where? In your company? Working in London?’
‘Let’s start with in this office.’
Kate looked around her at her neat space, in which she felt so safely cocooned. These four walls were tangible proof of how far she’d come and how quickly—tangible proof of the solid income that marked her steps along that road called financial security.
Her mother had asked if she could visit her place of work when next she was in London but Kate had tactfully, and a little shamefully, killed the suggestion before it could take shape.
Lilac Watson, not yet fifty, and these days thankfully a little less obvious in displaying what she had to offer physically, would still never have blended into these muted, expensive surroundings.
This was Kate’s life, built with her own blood, sweat and tears, and her mother had her own life. In Cornwall. Far away. Separate.
‘What about it?’ She shoved her work laptop into a leather briefcase and reached for the grey jacket she had slung over the back of her chair.
Grey jacket, grey calf-length skirt, flat, sensible patent pumps and, yes, definitely tights. Not stockings. Tights. Possibly of the support variety. Who knew? It was impossible to tell what sort of figure she had under the prim ensemble. Not fat, not thin, tall... The shirt managed to hide everything up top and the skirt did a similar job with everything down below.
And why the hell was he looking anyway?
‘How long have you been here? In it?’
Kate paused and frowned. ‘A little over six months. To start with I was moved in here because I was working late on a couple of very big clients and George thought that the quiet would help concentration. Not that it’s a mad house outside. It isn’t. And then, when I was promoted, I was offered it. I snapped it up.’
She reached for her briefcase, slung her black bag over her shoulder and straightened her skirt.
‘Thanks very much for your offer of a ride home, but there are one or two things I need to collect on the way so I shall take the Tube.’
‘What things?’
‘Things... Food items. I need to stop off at the corner shop.’
Alessandro heard irritation behind her calmly spoken words. This was something he wasn’t used to, and he was as bemused by his own reaction to it as he had been by his earlier curiosity as to what lay underneath the prissy work clothes.
‘Not a problem.’ He waved aside her objection. ‘I’ve sent my driver home and I have my own car. Far more convenient if you load whatever you need to buy into my car rather than having to walk with it back to your house.’
‘I’m accustomed to walking home with my groceries.’
Alessandro looked at her narrowly. He wouldn’t have taken her for being skittish, but there was something skittish about her now. And why turn down a ride home? With him?
‘It would be useful for us to decide how to approach this delicate problem with George Cape and whatever money he’s been siphoning off.’
‘If he’s been siphoning off any. And I was under the impression that you had already decided what you would do if you found out that he had taken money from you...throw him in prison and chuck away the keys.’
‘Let’s hope I’ve got it wrong, in that case, and he’ll be spared the prison sentence.’ He stepped aside, leaving her just sufficient room to brush past him through the door, switching off the lights in her wake. ‘You’ve been in this office for six months and this is the first time it’s struck me that there’s nothing personal in here at all. Nothing.’ Kate flushed. ‘It’s an office,’ she said briskly, stepping in front of him, briefcase in one hand, bag over her shoulder, head held high and deliberately averted from him. ‘Not a boudoir.’
‘Boudoir...nice word. Is that where you stash all your personal mementoes? In your boudoir?’
Kate heard the amusement in his voice and turned to him angrily. Get a grip, she told herself sternly. Don’t let the man rattle you. Green flashing eyes clashed with his oh-so-dark ones and she felt herself sinking into his gaze, had to yank herself firmly back to reality.
Alessandro Preda had a reputation with women. Even if the gossip hadn’t reached her ears, one glance at any news rag would have informed her of that reputation.
He used women. He was always being snapped with models draped on his arm, gazing up at him adoringly. Lots of models. A different model for every month of the year. He could have started his own agency with the number of them he ran through. She wondered whether some of those models had been like her mother—sad creatures, blessed with spectacular looks but not enough common sense to know how to use what they had been given. Hanging on. Hoping for more than would
